


The bookshop which broke the detective

by TheKnightsWhoSay



Series: Visitors to the Bookshop [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Drabble, Fluff, John is a clueless closeted idiot, M/M, The ineffable husbands are adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnightsWhoSay/pseuds/TheKnightsWhoSay
Summary: A case takes John and Sherlock to a bookshop in Soho.(In which John finally encounters Sherlock well and truly speechless with confusion. Deductive skills mean nothing in a place where miracles are regularly used as a means to make dinner)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Visitors to the Bookshop [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080746
Comments: 34
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock, wait” says John, trying to keep up. As usual, the infuriating man doesn’t listen. John lengthens his stride to the point of uncomfortable but refuses to do something as demeaning as jog. He curses Sherlock under his breath.

Rounding a corner, he suddenly recognises the shabby bars and crowded streets. Soho. Why Soho? Who knows. John will never presume to understand how the man thinks.

John knows London now. He’ll never know it the way Sherlock does, but then, John supposes no one ever will. Sure, he’d become familiar with certain parts of London before when he’d lived here as a student, but not the way he knows it now. These days, he’s always running across some strange neighbourhood, through back streets, disrupting elderly AA meetings in community centres, breaking into museums. You name it, he’s been there.

Some parts of the city feel like a different World. A stroll through Shepherd’s Bush is nothing like a walk down Mayfair. But Soho, John can’t help but like Soho. The creative, the eccentric and the queer all gather together in Soho for strange cocktails and more in pulsing rooms. He likes such people, doesn’t he follow Sherlock around, after all? At the same time, he still flushes uncomfortably when confronted with 9-inch rainbow dildos and men wearing leather harnesses and little else.

Someone in spiked high heels, vivid purple eyeshadow and a long, orange coat whistles as Sherlock passes. John rolls his eyes and brushes past them.

“Nice catch, honey. He’s a cutie,” they purr. John mutters, more to himself than anyone else, “for the last time, we are not a couple. I am _not_ gay.”

But no one’s listening, and Sherlock only snaps at him to keep up.

Finally, they reach their destination. A crumbling bookshop on the corner.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re here for?”

“The case, John, the case! What else?”

John sighs. Why does he bother asking? Of course, it’s for the case, he’d just hoped for more information before they enter so he knows whether to expect a fight or not. He’s brought his gun anyway, just in case. More often than not, he ends up needing it.

The case is a perplexing one, the kind of tantalising puzzle that Lestrade didn’t even bother with before handing it to Sherlock. Not worth the headache, but for Sherlock, it’s like Christmas came early.

A serial thief has been taking valuable items from high-security homes across the city. With each theft, the thief leaves a coded note. Cracking the code had been easy for Sherlock, but understanding the message, less so. Whoever the thief is, they seem to believe that the world will end in five days. They believe this because of some obscure 17th-century prophecy.

So here they are, perhaps to consult an expert on ancient prophecies.

A little bell rings as Sherlock pushes open the door to the dusty bookshop and John follows him inside.

“We’re closed, so bugger off!” Calls a drawling voice from the back of the shop.

“Then why is the door open, with an open sign?” Sherlock calls back. But just as he’s about to barge in like he owns the place, he stops. He looks around like he’s disoriented like something isn’t quite right. John raises an eyebrow at him.

The magnifying glass comes out. Whoever owns the shop still hasn’t emerged and Sherlock seems to be engrossed in the dust lining the shelves, the smudge marks across the floor, he even takes a deep inhale of the mouldy curtain in the corner. If John didn’t know any better, he would say the man is confused. That doesn’t happen often.

“John, what do you see?” says Sherlock in a strained tone.

 _Here we go,_ thinks John, _Time to embarrass myself, “_ Uhhhh….I see a dusty old bookshop?” He tries.

Sherlock stares at him, “Seriously? Is there really anything knocking about in that head of yours at all?”

Annoyance bristles along John’s shoulders, “If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, why ask?”

“A reminder of how incredibly _dull_ , normal people’s minds can be. You missed all the obvious things, of course. This bookshop isn’t just old, it’s ancient. Or so the dust would imply. But if it’s ancient, how come the books aren’t crumbling? And what I don’t understand is-“

“Hey!” the owner emerges, removing a set of oven gloves with lobster pincers printed on them. The red-haired man is wearing black sunglasses, despite the already dim lighting inside and he wears an apron with a very muscular, mostly naked man on it, “Didn’t I just say that we’re closed? Get out,” the smell of pastry accompanies the man as he moves closer.

Sherlock just stares at him. John can see his eyes moving, probably cataloguing some tiny details like a fleck of ketchup on the man’s sleeve or something. John just stands in a spot where he has a clear view of the owner, Sherlock and the door, and stays ready in case a fight should start.

Sherlock frowns and tilts his head. John wonders what conclusions he has drawn.

The owner sighs, “ _Oh_ , are you actually here to buy books? That doesn’t happen very often. I’m afraid the man himself is out. I’m just the…lodger.”

Sure. Lodger. By the glint of the man’s black stud earrings, John would say he might be more than that. He doesn’t need Sherlock’s deductive skills to figure that one out.

“That’s a shame,” Sherlock says but he’s still frowning. Suddenly he steps forward, invading the red-haired man’s personal space and grabs a handful of his jacket, kneeling so that he can peer at it.

“Oi! What are you doing?”

“Sherlock,” John says in warning.

“Just…observing,” says Sherlock, “When will the owner return?” his voice sounds distracted and his eyes stay glued to the man’s clothes. He does, to John’s relief, take a small step back.

“I dunno. Later. After some period of time has passed. I don’t usually keep track too closely.”

Right on cue, a jingle sounds behind them and through the rusted door comes a man with brilliant white hair, dressed like an English gentleman going for a summer picnic in the 20th century, “Darling, they didn’t have any…oh, hello there,” he says upon seeing Sherlock and John.

“You have customers,” says the red-haired man, turning and disappearing into a back room again.

“Oh, right. My apologies for my delay. Customers are…infrequent. Now, how can I help you?” he sounds like an old-fashioned English gentleman too. He pushes his small, circular glasses up his nose and clasps his hands in front of him.

The reply does not come. John turns to look at Sherlock and the man seems…stuck. His face twisted in confusion and he’s peering at the white-haired man like he’s never seen someone like him before. John almost laughs. It’s nice to see the detective at a loss for once.

A minute passes. The white-haired man looks between the two of them, waiting for an answer. The silence grows awkward. Sherlock continues to stare.

John eventually clears his throat, “Hi. So, yes. We’re here for a book. A book of prophecy. From the 17th century. You got any of those?” John’s eyes flick back to Sherlock. Nope, he’s still gone.

The white-haired man turns to John and his eyes light up, “A book of _prophecy?_ Oh my dears, you are _definitely_ in the right place. Why, books of prophecy are my speciality. Here, through the back” John is led through to a back room but Sherlock remains frozen, like a statue, in the middle of the room.

“Uh…will your partner be joining?” The man asks him.

He almost, instinctively replies that he is _not_ Sherlock’s partner, but then realises that partner could just mean crime-solving partner or many other things, “I guess he won’t be joining us, no. I think he just needs a moment,” John replies.

He wonders, for the briefest moment, if Sherlock is alright, but he moves quickly on. It’s not like the man ever spares him any worry in return. He’ll be fine.

“17th century did you say? I have a few volumes from that period, was there anything in particular you were looking for?”

“Uhhh…” John racks his brain. Sherlock’s hardly told him anything about his understandings of the case, and since Sherlock’s out of action, he’ll have to muddle along, “I’m not sure which one in particular, but I might know it when I see it, could I take a look at all of them?”

The man makes a sound like a squeak, “well…they’re very delicate, you see. I’d rather not move them around too much. But I have copies of key sections – samples, if you will.”

“Yes, could I take a look at those?”

“Of course, let me just dig them out…oh _heavens,_ what has that demon done with my system…Crowley!”

The white-haired man runs off in a trail of paper, and, to John’s confusion, what sounds like the flutter of wings.

John follows. He can’t help it, there’s something about these two. Something confusing enough to have, for lack of a better word, _broken_ Sherlock. Besides which, they seem like an interesting pair.

He’s not far behind the white-haired man when he pushes through a door into a room black with smoke and the smell of burning food. Peeping his head around the frame, John sees a small, cluttered kitchen piled high with an equal number of books and plants, all in strange positions: plants all over the table so there’s nowhere to eat; books wedged between the plant pots; John even spies a collection of cacti on top of the hob.

In short, it looks like a kitchen in which food is rarely cooked. John can relate.

“This cooking business is _not_ as easy as humans make it out to be.”

“Crowley, what on earth have you done with my prophecy notes? I told you not to mess with those.”

“I put them in the computer,” says Crowley, shoving a steaming heap of ash out the window. John can hardly believe it was ever edible. This man puts Sherlock to shame.

“You did _what?”_

“Angel, look, these things are the shit. You gotta get with the times at some point. Stop living in 1885,” Crowley stares sadly at the empty oven tray, “I can’t believe I ruined these stupid, fucking pies.”

“I _liked_ 1885\. Everything made much more sense without these perplexing, new-fangled machines. And why were you attempting to cook anyway.”

 _He liked 1885?_ John thinks, _what does he mean by that?_

Crowley looks away and puts down the now-empty oven tray, “Well, I dunno. I just thought, since that bakery you like closed down, where will you get your weird-ass little triangle puff things? The ones with sumac and fucking pomegranate juice or whatever…”

The white-haired man wraps his arms around Crowley and beams at him, “You were trying to bake _fatayer?_ For me?”

“Stop smothering me, Angel, jeez. And don’t get ahead of yourself I was just tired of your sulking-“

“I was _not_ sulking-“

“You _totally_ were,” but Crowley smiles and leans in to the other’s embrace. John feels suddenly uncomfortable like he’s seen something private he wasn’t supposed to. Or maybe it’s something else, some other emotion he can’t quite place. It feels like an ache.

As he quietly slips away back to the main room, he hears Crowley mumbling something about sorting out the computer. When John rounds the corner, Sherlock has vanished. John sighs and on cue his leg spasms in pain. This feels familiar.

He wonders how long the strange couple will take to find the prophecy notes, decides he ought to locate Sherlock in the meantime, and leaves a note on the table by the front door with their address and number. He’ll come back for the prophecy notes.

The bell above the door twinkles as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a one-shot, but I could quite happily continue this story! I'd love to know if anyone would be interested in more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has an existential crisis. John doesn't know what to do.

John scours Soho for over an hour before concluding that Sherlock is definitely not there. He sighs. The man could be anywhere, but he knows better than to try guessing where he could have gone. The sky suddenly opens up, and he groans as the rain starts to fall. Just his luck. John flags down a cab and returns to Baker Street.

He trudges through the door, shaking the moisture from his coat, and isn’t surprised to see a heap of purple silk on the sofa, “Two words,” he says to Sherlock, “That’s all. Just to let me know you were leaving. It’s not that hard.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He doesn’t move either. John rolls his eyes, steeling himself for what is likely to be a week-long sulk.

He’s about to head up the stairs to his room when he sees the empty packaging strewn across the floor in the middle of the room. Medical packaging. John’s heart stills.

“Sherlock…” he trails off as he bends to look at the discarded plastic. The label describes a medical-grade syringe. He grits his teeth together, “please tell me you haven’t been using?” John says, turning. Heat skirts under his skin like he’s gearing up for a fight.

Sherlock still doesn’t reply.

John calls his name again. Nothing. He walks over to the man and manhandles him so that he can take a look at him.

“Sherlock!” This finally gets a reaction and the man groans in complaint and weakly paws at him. John struggles with him to get his fingers on the man’s wrist, and then take a look at his pupils.

“Would you _stop_ that? …Haven’t been using…fuck off” Sherlock says, wriggling out of John’s grasp, a mess of disheveled black curls.

“Then what’s this?” John holds the plastic up to Sherlock’s face, “I don’t have to be a bloody genius. You’re getting sloppy, you even left the evidence on the floor! I’m tired of picking up after you like a parent, would you-“

“Testing,” Sherlock mumbles.

“What?”

“Was _testing_ for drugs not taking them…” The man writhes in despair and curls in on himself again, moaning as if he’s in pain, “ _It’s all a lie. Everything’s a lie.”_

“For fuck’s sake Sherlock, start making sense! You were testing for drugs? Testing who? Why?”

But Sherlock seems truly, disturbingly out of it in a way John hasn’t seen him before. The man clamps his hands over his head to drown out John’s voice and keeps muttering to himself. It sounds to John like the man is quoting something. A play maybe? Shakespeare? Something about mortals being fools.

The only time John’s seen him this bad was… _Oh_. Baskerville. Sherlock had been questioning everything, and all because the evidence didn’t add up, his senses had been lying to him. But that had been because of the drugs. That broke him. Is that what’s happening now? Was the drug test for himself?

“Yourself? Did you test yourself?”

“Yes, John, but there’s _nothing._ I am completely sober. _Therefore I must believe what I have seen._ What is the point to existence? Why are we here John? How is anyone supposed to function when it’s all true – when there is an afterlife all along?”

“Shit, Sherlock. Calm down, jeez. What’s caused all this?”

But the man is lost again. John curses. Just a regular Tuesday for him. He can’t handle Sherlock like this. He lets go of the man, gets up, shakes himself, and goes to make some tea.

He thinks back over the day. It was the bookshop and its inhabitants that really seemed to get to Sherlock. But why? The kettle rumbles as the water boils and John stares at the shapes formed by the steam as it rises.

His phone rings, startling him.

“Hello?”

“John, how’s it going with the case?” It’s Lestrade.

“Oh, the case. Well, uh,” John ducks his head around the corner. Sherlock is still a shivering, mumbling heap, “there might be some delay…”

“Delay? Bollocks. Is there any way you could give us some clues, anything to go on? The wealthy victims of the burglary have been nagging us nonstop, and they have friends in high places. We need to at least be seen to be doing something.”

“Right. Well, we’ve figured out that the thief was quoting a 17th-century prophecy.”

“Ok, and what does that tell us?”

“Good question. Not sure yet.”

He hears Lestrade sigh, “Ok, well it’s something. Just let me know when you have more, will you?”

“Of course.”

John shuts his eyes and breathes deeply for a few minutes. Is Sherlock going to be out of action for a while? He can never tell. Perhaps he should just take up the case on his own. He’s learned a lot from the detective, even though he’s no comparison.

On autopilot, he prepares two mugs of tea. He blinks at them. When had he started doing that? He takes the two mugs through to the sitting room and places one by Sherlock’s prone form.

His stomach growls, he hasn’t eaten since breakfast and it’s nearly evening. Come to think of it, he’s not sure he’s seen Sherlock eat since they started on the case, several days ago. He calls a Thai restaurant and orders a delivery.

The next few hours he spends pouring over his notes and the coded messages from the serial thief. He tries and fails to look at it like Sherlock would; trying to see patterns, understand the intention behind each word, the calligraphy, the paper, but to no avail. The food arrives, he eats, Sherlock doesn’t. The detective’s tea goes cold, untouched. He hasn’t moved.

Sherlock mutters quietly under his breath, and occasionally makes a pained sound like a whimper. John feels the strangest urge to be closer to him, to offer comfort, or maybe to draw a blanket over the man and talk him into eating.

Sherlock’s very vulnerable like this. It’s so different from the man most people probably see. Cold, hyper-intelligent, a whirlwind of information.

The phone rings again, and John is grateful to end his train of thought. His face feels slightly flushed, like he had been wandering into forbidden territory.

“Hello?”

“Good evening. I believe we made our acquaintance earlier. My name is Aziraphale, you came to my bookshop looking for a book of prophecy?”

“Yes! Hi. I’m John. Listen, I’m sorry we just left like that. My, uh, _partner_ ran off and I went after him.”

“Not to worry at all. I know how it is. Crowley is _always_ disappearing. Sometimes I don’t see him for centuries…I mean, what _feels_ like centuries.”

John almost snaps that he and Sherlock are _not ‘_ partners’ the way these bookshop owners are ‘partners’ but he manages to hold his breath. It’s not that important.

“Uh…so anyway. Did you find the summaries you were talking about?”

“Oh yes! It just took some time to convince the damned machine to spit them out in paper form. Computers are really such strange contraptions.”

“Sure they are,” John wonders if this man somehow actually _is_ a 20th-century English gentleman. Time travel. That would be enough to break Sherlock, “So can I come by and have a look? I suppose you’re closed now?”

“Hm? Oh, now’s fine. We shall see you soon.”

The line goes dead.

* * *

The burning smell from the failed baking fiasco has gone by the time John reaches the bookshop again. It’s dark outside now and the rain hasn’t stopped, not that it really counts as rain. It’s more like a pathetic and persistent drizzle, but that’s London for you.

Aziraphale is calmly waiting for him, a stack of paper in his hands. From the back, a grainy stereo is pumping out the catchy tones of ‘Rasputin’, the 80s disco hit. John isn’t surprised. Disco and Soho seem to go hand in hand. Aziraphale doesn’t appear to notice it. John catches sight of the man’s partner, dancing with enthusiasm; his hair covered by a bandana and a watering can in his hand.

“Hi, it’s Aziraphale, right?”

“Yes, yes. John, I do believe? Here are the summaries I have of all the prophecies. Maybe these will help you figure out which one you need. Although I have to admit, I was curious about the reason for your interest. It’s a rather niche field.”

John pauses. If he were Sherlock, he’d have some elaborate lie he could spill instantly. But nothing comes to his mind. Besides, he has a good feeling about these two. So, he goes with the truth. Aziraphale’s eyebrows rise with each word John utters.

“You’re going to catch a criminal!? Why, I’d be _honoured_ to help.”

“A criminal leaving mysterious notes based on a 400-year-old prophecy?” says Crowley, emerging from around the corner whilst untying his bandana, “Are you going into detective work now, Angel? That’s a new one. Well, there was that one time with that royal lady’s missing handkerchief-“

“Now, now, dear. No need to drag up old memories.”

“Aw, come on. That was _hysterical_. Didn’t you end up in jail? _Again?_ ”

Aziraphale flushes and glares pointedly at Crowley, who smiles and brushes a hand against Aziraphale’s elbow.

“As I was saying John,” he says to John, abruptly turning away from Crowley, “feel free to take all these notes home. There’s plenty of quotes in there, hopefully enough to tell you which prophecy is the one you need. Then I can lend you the physical book, although, if you could be careful with my lovelies and use gloves, that would be greatly appreciated.”

John nods, gathers the papers into his satchel and leaves with the same strange ache he’d felt before.

He feels relieved to be out of there and away from the discomfort he felt watching the odd couple. The two seem to know each other very well and it’s clear they spend a lot of time together. It’s the little touches they share, and the way they look at each other, and the _trust_.

As John gets into a taxi, he thinks about the eccentric pair. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at him with that kind of trust and affection. Or since anyone touched him, even in a small way, like the odd brush of a hand. He thinks of how Aziraphale had wrapped his arms around Crowley in the kitchen earlier and there it is again, that ache he feels.

Maybe he needs to get on the dating scene again. He doesn’t want to be alone forever. Yet he feels a deep dread at the thought. He’s tired of the same, flimsy tinder dates that lead nowhere, inevitably falling apart the second they meet Sherlock.

Rain patters against the window. The bright lights of London at night twinkle through, distorted by the running rivulets of water.

He feels heavy as he plods up the stairs to the flat. The lights are off, but the streetlamp outside shines in through the open curtains. Sherlock hasn’t moved. John sighs and stands in the middle of the living room looking at the man for a while. He can’t help the worry that surges through him.

Just as he’s turning to go, Sherlock says, “John.”

His voice sounds ragged and broken. John moves closer, “Hey, Sherlock. Are you ok?”

“John. John. Oh, John,” is all Sherlock can seem to say, and it just seems like the right move to reach out and comfort him. He places his hand on the man’s shoulder, and the silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown is smooth beneath his palm. Sherlock stills.

Then he’s grabbing onto John’s hand and drawing it closer so that John’s forced onto his knees as Sherlock clutches at his arm like it’s a lifeline. John curses, his knees complaining heavily at the sudden movement. And now it seems like Sherlock’s not going to let go of his arm.

With his other hand, he gently touches Sherlock’s curls, and the man leans into his touch like a cat. Sherlock’s breathing seems much more relaxed, so John doesn’t really want to move, but after only a few minutes he finds he’s quite uncomfortable, kneeling on the hard-wood floor. He tugs gently, but Sherlock’s locked himself around John’s arm like a vice, like it’s _his,_ and he almost hisses when John tries to extricate himself.

How does he get himself into these messes?

Well, he might as well make himself comfortable.

“Hey, move over will you,” he gently cajoles the man into shifting over, and then John squeezes himself onto the sofa with him. It’s not a huge amount of space but wrapped around Sherlock, it just about works. His body sighs, relieved to be horizontal after a day of running around. This way, Sherlock can keep his hold on John’s arm, and John’s knees aren’t dying.

Sherlock is warm and being wrapped around him like this is…nice. Really nice. Sure, he has a face full of hair, but it’s soft, and Sherlock smells really good. Familiar. Something in John settles. Sherlock curls into the embrace, and after a while, John can feel his shuddering breaths start to even out.

Maybe Sherlock’s not the only one who needed this. It’s amazing what a little physical comfort can do.

Should he think about this? But even as some part of him tries to cry out, rallying about not being _gay_ and _what will people think_ , for the most part, John just feels tired, and warm, and safe and _home._ And none of that seems important.

Eventually, he falls asleep. Fuck it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested, here is some more! Perhaps I will write a few concluding chapters to come, work-depending :D Thank you for all your encouraging comments!
> 
> I am also open to more story ideas in this series! Who would you like to visit the bookshop next?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sherlock out of action, John recruits the far-too-enthusiastic Aziraphale to assist on the case. Crowley comes too. Lestrade is not exactly pleased.

John only sleeps a few hours. He wakes with a crick in his neck, pins and needles in his feet, and a dead right arm, trapped under Sherlock’s torso. Quietly, he extricates himself, and the man seems well and truly asleep. John’s just thankful he didn’t wake up with a hard-on. A shudder of discomfort passes through him at the thought.

His brow furrows in concern as his eyes pass over the heap of purple silk. It seems like the mother of all tantrums, but then again, in these moments Sherlock is shockingly human. Not a high-functioning sociopath or a genius or a detective or an annoying tosser or anything, just a man, wrestling with his own emotions.

Blood skitters through his veins like a jolt of caffeine, and just like that, he’s fully awake. Worry will do that. Scrubbing a hand over his face, his body thrums with the strange paradox of wakefulness combined with lack of sleep.

The sun will be up soon; London certainly is. Already, bus engines growl nearby, accompanied by the shudder of shop shutters being raised. John makes his choice, puts the kettle on, turns on the living room lamp, and gets out his notes.

It should be simple: he just needs to figure out which of the five prophecies is the one the serial thief keeps referencing. Yet the task is made more complex by the strange syntax of Aziraphale’s notes, the brevity of the thief’s messages, and the archaic language of 17th-century prophecy. Before long, three empty mugs stand in a line beside John’s hand, and he’s no closer to an answer than when he started.

His phone rings. It tells him it’s 9:00 am exactly.

“Excuse me, do I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. John Watson?”

“Hi Aziraphale,” says John, “Your timing is uncanny. You practically read my mind.”

“Nonsense. I can’t read minds,” says Aziraphale, leaving a strange pause after that somehow implies that he can, “how’s the case going?”

“Well, not a lot has happened since yesterday evening.”

“Ah, right, of course. Do let me know if I can help at all.”

“Actually-“John is interrupted as the doorbell rings, “I’ll have to call you back.” He hangs up.

The stairs complain as he descends. He finds Lestrade on the doorstep.

“Good to see you, John. I’m afraid this is a work call, there’s been another robbery. South Ken area. You were en route so I thought we’d just pick you up on the way. That alright?”

“Um. Yes. Sure. Let me just grab my wallet.”

Back in the flat, Sherlock is either very fast asleep, dead or doing a great job at lying extremely still. Regardless, John knows the man won’t be accompanying him today.

The paper sprawl of his notes across the table taunt him. His phone stands out amongst the white pages, an alien object. Before he can regret his decision, his hands fumble for redial.

“Aziraphale, it’s John.”

“John! Hello.”

“About helping on the case, are you free right now?”

* * *

“Do I want to know where Sherlock is, or…?” Lestrade asks as they drive.

“Um, it looks like I’m taking this case by myself for now.”

“Oh, ok. Did you guys have some kind of fight?”

“What? Oh, no, not like that, pretty sure it wasn’t me. This is just one of his moods. You know how it is.”

Lestrade nods.

“I don’t know how you put up with him John. You must be a saint.”

“Or a fool.”

Lestrade laughs, “There’s some truth in that.”

They turn into a residential road lined with tall, white, Victorian terraced houses. John can practically smell the money. They must be close by. If he were a thief, he’d choose this neighbourhood too.

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind, the sat nav announces that they’ve reached their destination. In the road in front of the house marked number 8, a large, vintage, black Bentley blocks their way.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, has this idiot parked right here?” says Lestrade.

As the man rants about uptight, rich bastards, a tousled head of white hair emerges out of the passenger side of the car. John groans.

“So, uh, the Bentley might be my fault.”

“What? Why.”

“I might have ... called in some help? This guy knows stuff about prophecies.”

Lestrade glares daggers at him, “I get in enough trouble as it is letting you and the idiot into our crime scenes. I can’t start letting in every other random civilian.”

“Well, he can wait outside then …” Out of the driver’s side, a man sporting a leather jacket and sunglasses emerges, “… _they_ can wait outside.”

Lestrade sighs wearily, “there’s two of them? Ok, fine, let’s get this over with.”

Aziraphale looks like he’s just short of jumping up and down with excitement, while Crowley leans against his illegally parked car, arms folded across his chest, looking both bored and amused.

“Aziraphale, thanks for coming. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Hello! It is so wonderful to meet you, and to assist with such an important case! I am at your service,” John can’t help but smile as the bookseller bows low, as if he were greeting a lady at a ball. Crowley sniggers.

“I appreciate your help,” says Lestrade, “but don’t get any ideas about playing detective. Leave that to us. We normally don’t allow civilians onto a crime scene. You and your partner will have to stay outside whilst we question the victim and find out what clues our thief has left us this time.”

Aziraphale visibly deflates, “Oh, I see, of course. Well, that’s ok-“

“Actually,” interrupts Crowley, “I think you’ll find we aren’t just civilians. We have this very official seal of approval from a high authority: the Queen herself, actually, yes,” Crowley waves a piece of paper in Lestrade’s face, “clearly stating that we are allowed to go onto crime scenes when needed. Completely official. Just look.”

John expects Lestrade to laugh and wave them off, but he doesn’t. It must have been some form of hypnotism because Lestrade suddenly believes Crowley’s blatant lie and is happy to let the pair follow them. In response to John’s confused look, Aziraphale just beams at him and steps past him into number 8. Crowley smirks and clasps John on the shoulder as he also ducks into the house.

They find a teary-eyed woman waiting for them in the living room. Her pastel green dress is clinched at the waist and adorned with a pearl necklace and matching earrings. The dress perfectly complements the minimalist, beige and teal furnishings.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here. I don’t know what to do. To think that our house could have been burgled just last night, with me and my husband right there the whole time, sound asleep. _Anything_ could have happened,” The woman pronounced all her consonants carefully as if making sure every word she said sounded just right.

“We’ll get the bottom of this as soon as we can,” says Lestrade, “Can you run us through what happened?”

“My sapphires! The thief took my sapphires! Why, those jewels are worth tens of thousands of pounds. And I can’t for the life of me figure out how he got past our security system! We spend a fortune on those alarms, and naturally we shall be suing the company.”

“How fascinating!” exclaims Aziraphale, startling everyone.

 _That’s just what Sherlock would say,_ thinks John, and fights down the resurge of worry.

“Excuse him,” jumps in Crowley, stepping in front of Aziraphale, “what he means to say is: it’s unfortunate that you’ve been robbed, but not to fear, because all the legions of hell will rain down in punishment on the soul who committed such a heinous crime, and they will be horrifically and brutally tortured for all eternity.”

All eyes now turn to Crowley. “What?” he says.

John clears his throat and turns to the woman, “Right, so, did the thief leave any kind of note?”

“Yes, yes he did,” she nods, “that’s why I knew to call the police immediately. I knew it had to be the same thief they keep talking about in the paper. The Doomsday Thief.”

“Is that what they’re calling him?” says Lestrade, rolling his eyes.

The woman hands a piece of paper to John, and together he and Lestrade, with Aziraphale and Crowley behind them peering over their shoulders, read:

_And so it shall be that those who are worthy shall ascend into the Land of Eternal Sun when the Ende of Dayes is upon us; and they shall bear the mark of the great riches of Sapphir._

“Oh! Oh! I know this one. Why, I believe he is, rather incorrectly, trying to quote _Until the End of Dayes!_ I have a copy of it in the bookshop.”

“Well, that’s excellent! We have a lead,” says Lestrade, “thank you.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know who might have a copy of this book? Or _why_ reading it has convinced them to start stealing from people in London?” asks John.

“By golly, it just so happens,” there is a sound that John thinks could be the fluttering of wings or the rustle of paper, “that I have a list of all such owners of this particular prophecy in my hand. Right here,” Aziraphale pulls a piece of paper out from behind his back.

“That’s…extremely lucky indeed,” John frowns. He could have sworn he hadn’t seen either Aziraphale or Crowley carrying anything when they entered the building, certainly not any notes or paper.

Lestrade eagerly takes it, and his eyes widen, “Oh, shit, this is great! There’s only a few names on here! We can easily follow up on all these. In that case, I should take this back to the station. Aziraphale, was it? Thanks for this. Really.”

All four of them leave the house.

“Right, I better be off. John, we can take it from here, so, you can take a break. Lord knows you probably need it, living with the madman himself. Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

He leaves John standing on the pavement with Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “is that it?”

“Yes. That’s really it. Not so much for us to do in the end, but thank you for your help.”

“Well, nice knowing you,” says Crowley.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” John replies.

The pair shuffle over towards the Bentley, and John turns to leave, stomach grumbling, thoughts centred around a greasy fry up. He starts to walk away and feels an echo of worry return when he thinks about returning to the flat. He pauses.

“Hey!” John calls, just before the Bentley is about to drive off. One pair of eyes and one pair of sunglasses turn to look at him through the side window. “My partner. The one who came with me that first time to the bookshop.”

“Dark curly hair? Cheekbones?” says Crowley.

“Yes. That’s the one. Well, you see – I’m not sure why I’m telling you this but – he’s been in the depths of some kind of existential crisis ever since he stepped into your bookshop. Actually, it was the bookshop plus meeting both of you, I think. I can never be sure how his brain works, but that’s what it seemed like. Anyway, I just wondered if you had any ideas why?”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. He and Crowley share a look, which seems to John like a guilty one.

“This guy’s some kind of detective yeah? Really smart? Good at putting together clues?” asks Crowley.

“Yeah. Crazy smart. The smartest, most brilliant man I’ve ever known. He can tell where someone was born by the ketchup stain on their sleeve, or what type of dog someone has by the way they’ve tied their shoelaces. He’s, yeah, he’s the real thing.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale again.

“Let me guess, he’s also a big believer in science, doesn’t really believe in any of the religious, spiritual, celestial stuff?”

“That’s about right, yes. Why? You sound like you know what’s going on with him.”

Aziraphale and Crowley share another look, and John gets the impression a silent conversation is happening that he doesn’t understand.

“Maybe we should…” says Aziraphale.

“Yeah, we probably ought to…” continues Crowley.

“Probably ought to what?” demands John, “can you please explain to me what the hell is going on?”

Crowley sniggers. Aziraphale elbows him and tells him to be quiet.

“Should we tell him?” the white-haired man asks his partner, ignoring John.

“Hmm … Ok. What the fuck. Let’s do it. I think he can take it.”

“Excellent,” Aziraphale turns to John again, “John? We’ll give you a lift and explain everything.”

John sighs, reminded of his first interaction with Mycroft. What is it about black shiny cars and people being really cryptic? John just seems to attract this kind of thing.

He gets in.

* * *

The second the Bentley pulls to a halt outside 221B John falls out of it. He lies in a heap on the pavement and starts to giggle.

Soon he’s wheezing for breath, sucking in great guffaws, half-shouting to the sky, oblivious to the two figures standing nearby.

“What do you think? Will he be ok?” says Crowley.

“I reckon so,” says Aziraphale.

“How about a bet?”

“A bet? With what?”

“I dunno. A fiver, I guess.”

“Why would I want a five-pound note?”

“Oh y’know. Just because. That’s how betting works.”

The pair turn to watch John as he starts to wind down, hysterics fading into deep breaths. He turns so he’s lying on his back, spread-eagled, staring up into the sky, where he now knows there to be a heaven. A real, literal place that actually exists.

“Shit,” says John, “So. You’re both. You’re really both. Shit. Celestial, immortal beings.”

John manages to sit up and leans his back against the side door of the Bentley. Aziraphale and Crowley glance at each other, and then they both get down on the pavement with John, one sat on either side.

“Technically we’re not celestial anymore. Well, we haven’t been for over 6000 years, but now more than ever, we’re on our own side, you could say,” says Crowley.

“Right. Ok,” says John, nodding. Then he realises he has an angel and a demon sat at either shoulder and he can feel the giggles building again like he’s snorted a fizzy drink. He’s lost to laughter again for a while, but the strange pair are patient and stay sat with him on the pavement through it all. They get a few strange looks from passers-by, but none of them stop to question it. It’s London, after all.

“So, when you’re ready we can take a look at your partner,” says Aziraphale in a gentle voice, “We can make him forget he came to the bookshop. Sometimes people find out that we’re not exactly human. It’s usually Crowley’s eyes-“

“Is not!”

“-but most people just brush it off. It’s quite handy you know, the human habit of forgetting. Convincing yourself you were seeing things. Anyway, for those rare humans who can’t brush over it or accept it, it’s usually easiest if we help them forget.”

“Huh. Ok. And me? Will you make me forget all you’ve just told me?”

“That depends,” says Aziraphale, “do you want us to?”

John leans his head back against the Bentley and feels the hysteria dissipate. He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply for a few minutes. So, heaven and hell are real. So what? It’s there, an impending existential crisis, he can feel it, but he’s faced death before. Having proof of what might come after should scare him, but like so many things, it seems he’s wired all wrong. He feels surprisingly…fine. Crazier things have happened to him.

“Actually, I think I’ll be ok. Somehow.”

“Good lad,” says Aziraphale, “You are clearly a resilient chap.”

“And Sherlock? You can really make him forget, just like that?”

“Yup,” says Crowley, “he’ll go right back to normal.”

“As normal as he gets, anyway. Which isn’t very,” adds John, “well, I guess I better let you in then.”

They help John to his feet. He’s only slightly unsteady. He leads them into 221B and up the stairs into the living room.

It’s as if no time has passed since John left. Sherlock is still curled up in the fetal position on the sofa and hardly seems to have stirred. Aziraphale and Crowley are close behind, and whilst Aziraphale goes straight to the figure on the sofa with eyes full of concern, Crowley wanders around the living room, muttering something about the lack of plants.

“There’s one thing I’m worried about,” John says, “If he has any gaps in his memory he’ll want to investigate. Anything he can’t explain, and he’ll find his way back to the bookshop eventually. That’s how he is. He won’t leave any mystery unsolved.”

“I see. That is a bit of a pickle,” says Aziraphale, “I can make it so that he doesn’t want to investigate the memory gaps either. Yes, that should do it. It will help if you can repeat the story to him, for it to settle. Let’s say he fell and hit his head. If you stick with it, he should accept it as truth easily enough.”

“Ok then, if you say so.”

If there’s anything that could stop Sherlock from investigating something, it would be angelic intervention.

At Aziraphale’s instruction, John carries Sherlock (bridal-style and blushing furiously the entire time) to his bedroom. As usual, it’s a rank mess, but at least the bed is clear enough to lay the man down. He curls up again instantly.

Crowley, meanwhile, seems entertained by the contents of the kitchen, or more specifically, the fridge. Standing at the doorway to the bedroom, Aziraphale calls to him, “Not now dear, I’m dealing with the detective.”

John sits beside Sherlock and watches the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

“We’ll be off now. Just be here when he wakes up,” says Aziraphale from the door. John gets up and walks over to him.

“That’s it? It’s done already? No chanting or fire or anything like that?”

“Heavens, no, nothing like that. It’s a small thing, really.”

“Right. Sure. Ok, well, thank you. For everything.”

“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, John Watson,” says Aziraphale, shaking John’s hand. Crowley appears behind the angel and wraps an arm around his waist, head appearing over the angel’s shoulder.

“See ya later!” says Crowley, taking Aziraphale’s hand and pulling him away. The stairs creak as they leave.

John half expected them to teleport.

From Sherlock’s bedroom, he hears a groan. He turns, putting the strange events of the last few days out of his mind as he returns to his own version of crazy.

“John?” says Sherlock, stirring.

“Hi, I’m here,” says John. The bed dips as he takes a seat beside the detective.

“I feel strange.”

“You fell and you’ve been semi-concussive for about two days. Nothing serious.”

“Yes, that’s right…I think,” Sherlock sits up just enough to take a good look at John. His hair is a nest and gunk clogs his eyes. His expression morphs into one of confusion.

“What?” says John.

“You," Sherlock peers at him and John's heart sinks. He's going to do the _thing_ again, "The skin of your bottom lip is ragged, and you tend to chew it when you haven’t slept well the night before. Specifically, because you slept _with_ someone and therefore couldn’t sleep because you're accustomed to sleeping on your own with your pistol close by. You usually shower in the mornings, but you didn’t this morning, backing up the theory that you slept with someone and besides which the angle of your hair implies you were lying on your side, residual strands of fabric suggest you were on a sofa, not a bed, and as for the identity of this person-“

Sherlock stops. His eyes widen. John goes very still.

“John,” Sherlock begins in a careful tone, “I must admit I don’t entirely understand. You have on 37 occasions to date made clear that you are not in any way interested in people of the same sex. Therefore, upon further research, I have been careful to follow the supposed socially accepted boundaries pertaining to two males who are not involved in a relationship of physical or sexual nature. So I am perplexed to remember, indeed, to see with my own eyes the evidence that you – that we – were close, last night.”

John sighs. Aziraphale said he’d need a clear story, didn’t he? Sherlock is looking at him in a way John hasn’t seen before. There’s confusion, of course, but there’s something else. Hope. And what was that he said? 37 times? He’d been counting all the times John had made clear he wasn’t gay, and it sounded like the man had gone out of his way to understand social boundaries. That wasn’t something he’d ever seen Sherlock do, but he had for John.

All this time, was Sherlock being careful with him to protect himself? To save their friendship? All this time, could there have been something more here?

“I…The thing is, Sherlock….”

What is he trying to say? That he liked sharing an embrace last night? That he likes the thought of touch? Of sharing more?

Suddenly, he understands what he’s been feeling when he watched Azriaphale with Crowley: that ache, that discomfort. It’s desire. John longs for that kind of companionship, for that kind of understanding, for the small touches, for the sharing of a life.

Sherlock’s still looking at him with fear and hope and John finally understands that Sherlock may have been asking for this all along, but John’s stubbornness and pride stood in the way.

They already live together. They already share everything. People already talk. _So let them fucking talk,_ thinks John.

And it’s the smallest thing, the simplest thing in the world to reach out ever so gently and brush his fingers against Sherlock’s wrist.

“John…” Sherlock raises a hand, hesitant, uncertain, and gently cups John’s cheek, “I’m a difficult man, John. Even more difficult to be with. In…this way. More than we were before. Are you sure about this?”

John smiles, “You think I don’t know what I’m getting myself into? I’ve seen you at your worst, Sherlock Holmes, and I’m still here. Funnily enough….I am sure.”

And John closes the distance between them and presses their lips together.

When they pull apart, they’re both grinning like fools.

Maybe they both are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I shall end it, thanks for all the love <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Disenchanted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839963) by [yourfavoritetsundre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfavoritetsundre/pseuds/yourfavoritetsundre)




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